


Be My Gallows

by jotunblood



Category: American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cunnilingus, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Gift Giving, Knifeplay, Mild Blood, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Power Dynamics, Sexual Tension, Suicide mention, Trust Kink, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 05:03:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jotunblood/pseuds/jotunblood
Summary: Michael Langdon was toying with her.





	Be My Gallows

**Author's Note:**

> This pairing grabbed me by the throat and won’t let go. Definitely a canon divergence; I play fast and loose with the timeline, add in some feelings about demon forms-- and in this fic author's house, love interests don't die-- but still fairly in-verse. Let me know what you think, if you’d like! I had a killer time writing it.

Michael Langdon was toying with her. Ms Venable knew it, though why was unclear.

The man had been a nuisance since he'd arrived. He’d undermined her authority, sown panic, and kicked up lust like dirt with his heels. That last was most unnerving. The pull to him was palpable, and thick enough to smell. It rolled off the women, the men, and embarrassingly, herself. What was worse, Langdon seemed to sense it.

She wasn’t experienced by any stretch. She’d had a few encounters when she was younger, but those had been tepid at best. Inexperience coupled with self loathing cut them short; she hadn’t even let the boy lift her shirt. The fucks were quick, economical, the most memorable aspect how her back radiated after for days. There was no good position, or none she’d been willing to spend time finding. It wasn’t worth the effort. Not when even the few minutes it took for her partner to find edge made her gut curl.

She wasn’t experienced, but she also wasn’t a virgin. She knew desire when it flared between her legs. And she hated it, because Langdon was arrogant, quippish, and predatory to the core. She didn’t need to read his history to know that. Which was fortunate, because he’d been astoundingly unforthcoming. He'd spoken about the aims of the Cooperative, but had done no sharing of his own. Apart from this what was on his ID badge, she knew nothing of him at all. He took what he wanted, never giving in return. It was another of his offputting traits. 

If he stayed long enough, the list of them was only likely grow.

By contrast-- unfortunately-- he was disarmingly handsome, and hands uncommonly warm. She’d felt their touch more in his stay than any other in her life, a fact that grew more unsettling by the day. It couldn’t be without cause that he grazed her shoulders, or snagged her wrist to keep in her in place. There was no wasted effort in this bleak new world, only games one didn't yet understand. And that’s what this was. She was certain of it. Michael Langdon was playing a game, and she was his piece. 

She didn't know when she'd lost home advantage, or how difficult it'd be to regain, but she needed it back, and soon. 

If what he said was true, there wasn't much time left to play.

 

 

They weren’t arguing, but the conversation was unpleasant. If the man wasn’t blocking the door, she might've left.

She was at her desk when Michael entered the study, and despite its source, she welcomed the distraction. The room was dull, lined with books she’d read twice and darkened by old wood paneling. When this was a school, the room had probably been nice. The fireplace would’ve hosted academic chats, the window sitting open over verdant fields. But there was no fire; tinder was too precious for individual use, and the window was boarded up. Even if it hadn’t been, what would there be to see? There were only ugly fog out there now.

“I don't think I heard you,” she said, more out of shock than anything. She was almost certain she knew what he’d said.

The man smiled, closed lipped. “I asked why you didn’t have them sterilized.”

Ah. She _had_ heard. 

“The residents?” His nod was casual, so at odds with the topic that it made her tongue ache. “How would I have done that? And why?”

“You have a medical wing at your disposal,” he said simply, “and it’d have solved your problem. Without the fear of expectant mothers depleting rations, you might not have needed to break policy.”

 _Might not have_. The phrasing wasn’t lost, but she chose to skim over it. She wasn’t biting his bait today.

“I don’t think that’s policy either.” She closed her book, pushed it aside, and sat back in the chair. “Besides, none of them would’ve agreed.”

“You’d be surprised what people agree to when they’re afraid.”

She rolled her eyes. His dramatics were unnecessary, and the suggestion was an insult to his employers. 

“I assume genetic screenings are being done for a reason. Would you have preferred scorched product to celibates?”

“Given how traumatic the experience seems to have been, I really don’t see much difference.”

She didn't respond, which he took as a victory. Pushing off the door, he advanced into the room. Making a slow circuit, he scanned the shelf on the way to her desk. Casual again, though his destination was clear.

“Do you have a point, Mr Langdon?” she asked, tracking his path. 

She'd rearranged the books a dozen times, and could've named any one he pointed to. But he wasn't pointing, didn't even seem to be reading titles. One hand stroked the spines, the fingers catching in divots as he went. His knuckles rolled, and she mimicked it by tapping her knee. There was something indecent about those hands. She almost wished he’d cover them.

“People like structure, Ms Venable, and you’re the sole provider of it here.” He neared the desk but kept his eyes on the shelf, feigning interest in her collection. “You could've done any horrible thing you wanted, and people still wouldn't have braved the wastes. Why didn't you?”

He was at the edge of the desk now, attention fixed firmly on her. His eyes were cold, and she tensed beneath them, because she had done horrible things. It was objective fact, and undeniable. She wondered how much of that he knew, and if this was an attempt to wheedle out a confession.

“Is this an inquisition?”

“It's a question. Off the record.”

She didn't believe that, but at the risk of incriminating herself--

“I have done what I wanted,” she said. “And as a result, this Outpost has stayed afloat. I don't know what more you or the Co-op could want.”

Michael barked a laugh, and the noise did nothing for her nerves. 

“Don’t be mean, Miss,” he teased. “I said 'off the record’.”

She grimaced. She hated when he called her Miss.

“You say a lot of things.”

“Maybe, but this isn't about me.” He moved in, planting his hands on the desk. “It’s about your inability to see beyond that.” 

He nodded, presumably to her cane, but she refused to follow his gaze. He was close now. She wouldn’t take her eyes off danger.

“You don't have to toe around it,” he continued. “You're already a tyrant, and could be worse without ever leaving this office again.” He chewed his lip, gnawing a thought. “Like a headmistress, sending agents out to spy. The kind--” He paused again, stroking the dark desk. “--that keeps students under the desk, and between her thighs.”

She recoiled, frown deepening to a sneer. “That’s vile.”

“It is,” he agreed, straightening to his full height. “And you seem busy. Don't let me keep you.”

As quickly as he’d entered, Michael retreated. The door shut like a gun behind him, and the silence that followed was ugly.

 

 

Despite there being relatively few residents, evaluations seemed to drag. She wondered how thorough the Co-op expected Langdon to be. Fairly, she supposed. They wouldn’t want any weakness slipping in to the Sanctuary. He’d have to be careful, and implicitly trusted. 

How anyone could trust him was beyond her.

Her own interview had come and gone badly, but she didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t want to think of anything except running Outpost 3, which was still hers to control.

 _For now_ , she thought, then shook it away. For always was more accurate. She could pace the halls long after they were abandoned. She could starve, or kill herself, or wander out into the radiation. She had options still; damn Langdon and the Cooperative. Damn everything.

Or maybe that'd been done already. Maybe they’d all been damned, and hell was creeping up to claim them.

 

 

“Do you like whiskey?”

Ms Venable sniffed, pushing her rations around with a fork. He sat across from her at the table, though she wished he didn’t. He ate too performatively. His large hands twirled his fork, slipping it in and dragging it out from his lips too slowly. It drew too much attention to his mouth, which, she noted begrudgingly, was generous. When he wasn’t speaking, at least.

“I used to.”

“Then?”

She stabbed a limp vegetable. It was bland but edible, and she forced herself to take a bite. Chewing slowly, she considered her answer. She could say it was part of the Outpost’s philosophy, and make up a parable about drunkenness. She could also say it was ill advised for humanity's last hoorah to bloat their livers. Ultimately, however, she decided against both. There was no point in lying.

“We ran out.”

He tutted. “Too bad.”

It wasn't, really. It had been more of a hindrance than anything. Several early inhabitants abused it, sneaking around ration limits to take more than their share. They'd been drunkards and troublemakers, and dealt with accordingly. By then, though, the damage was done. What should have lasted three years ran out in less than one, and there was no hope of receiving more. If there was any left uncontaminated, it would be sent to the Sanctuary.

“I haven't,” Michael said. He was smiling, eyes half lidded. How many people he'd lured with that look? “Run out, I mean.”

“How nice for you.”

“It’s nicer shared, in my experience.” He spun his fork, the tines catching light. “Perhaps you agree.”

Her brow scrunched. “Are you offering me a drink?”

“I'm inviting you to ask for one. Nicely.”

His smile split, baring teeth. They were military straight, the canines pointing wickedly. He reminded her of a jackal, and she turned back to her food uneasily.

“No,” she said, and speared another vegetable.

He didn't ask again.

 

 

She was annoyed when she reached his room, a feeling that grew when her knock went unanswered.

“Mr Langdon,” she called through the door. “I need to speak with you.”

No response. Vexing. She knew he was in there. 

He'd returned to his suite an hour ago after an evaluation. It’d gone badly, apparently; badly enough for the girl in question to come forward. Michael hadn't touched her, she assured, but he'd...well, what he'd exactly done was unclear. The girl was talking nonsense, muttering about witchcraft. Impossible, of course. Likely he’d only said something to frighten the girl, but she'd be remiss if she didn't scold him.

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” he answered finally, voice muffled. “But I'm a little busy.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don't need much time.”

“Can it wait?”

It could have, but she didn't like waiting, and it felt good to have caught him at a bad time.

“I’m afraid not.” Balancing on her cane, she fished the master key from her skirt. “I'm coming in.”

It was hardly a warning. The door’s lock was already tumbling, and she wasted no time pushing through. Michael cussed, shuffling frantically, though it wasn't until her back was to the door that she realized why.

He was naked. Not fully, but he clearly had been. His chest and feet were bare, pants pulled up sloppily around his waist, their fastenings open on his lower belly. His hair was ruffled, and he was panting, though only in annoyance. He was too proud to be ashamed of nudity. Ms Venable, however--

Her mouth was open. She could feel it, and her lips quite suddenly dry. Her breaths came uneven, and an embarrassed heat was building under her collar. She should’ve looked away, or left, let him finish dressing in peace. But she didn't. Her eyes ran wild, skating up muscle and his sharp collar bone, back down the line of his throat. How long had it been since she'd seen so much skin? Years at least, and none had been this radiant. He seemed to glow, pulse a heady heat. 

“Satisfied, Ms Venable?” he asked. He'd recovered from being barged in on, and was determined to turn the knife. “Or should I call you Wil, since we're getting familiar?”

The pettish shortening of her name was a shock, second only to the one of him using it at all.

“Ms Venable will do,” she corrected. “Don't flatter yourself. This isn't about getting familiar.”

He cocked his head, hair spilling down one shoulder. She wondered how it'd feel in her hands.

“What is it about?”

She couldn't remember. Her thoughts were in a tangle around his chest.

“What were you doing?” she asked in lieu of an answer. “It's barely evening. You can’t be going to bed.”

The question threw him, and he hesitated a moment. “I was going to wash.”

She didn't believe it. There was no sound of water, and no candles brightening the open bathroom. This part of the suite, however, was over lit. Dozens of candles flickered, most in a wide ring around his feet. It was an odd arrangement, like something from a book she'd read as a child; women gathered in the woods, spilling blood to open hell. Witchcraft.

But no. The thought was baseless, and useful only in that it reminded her of why she’d came.

“The girl you spoke with earlier. What did you say?”

He clucked his tongue, somehow managing to look superior. “That’s confidential.”

“I’m sure.” She took a few careful steps closer. “But there have been accusations.”

“Accusations,” he repeated. “Of what?”

“She claims you upset her.” She bit her tongue. It sounded ridiculous, but she couldn’t leave until now. “Why would that be?”

“Are you serious?” When she didn’t recant, he laughed. “I imagine I did upset her. Evaluations can be emotional. Perhaps you remember.”

Her grip on her cane went white.

“You don’t run this Outpost,” she spat. “If you overstep again, I’ll--”

She choked off. Her jaw quivered, aching to snap, but what could she say? He was an independent agent. She had no authority over him. 

His brow quirked, mouth turning up to match it. Smug bastard. She smacked her cane against the floor and redirected.

“Get dressed,” she said, nodding to a pile of clothes. “And try not to harass anyone in the process.”

He didn’t move as she made her exit, didn’t even speak again until the door was between them.

“See you at dinner, Wil.”

The condescension leaked through it like oil, and he banged it with her fist before retreating.

 

 

She was losing her mind. That was the only explanation. She hadn’t dreamed so vividly in months.

It was always the same. She’d sense a shift in the room, and find Michael standing by the bed. He’d be naked to the waist, golden hair over his shoulders, and burning a hole in the night. He didn’t climb in and mount her, or try to attack. He only stood there, unashamed to have been caught.

He didn’t speak, but he did communicate. He voice seemed to ring through her mind. It was invasive and raspy, but not with sleep. Something else, something warmer, and edged with need. It whispered her name, tailed by a string of vulgar images: his fists in her hair, his mouth latched to her neck, her nightgown rucked up to her hips. His face between her thighs, tongue wringing her like a rag. That last was most common, and torturous. It made her cunt ache, but she never crested. He wouldn't let her, no matter how much she began to beg. He kept her on edge, milking her for sound, and when she woke her underwear would be soaked.

Breakfast after that was always awkward, made worse by how quickly Michael found her. He was usually scarce until after breakfast, but after a night of dreaming, he always seemed to need her early. He’d join the table, and start conversations that ran until noon. It was pointless chatter-- some detail he'd been pondering, or how much longer she expected rations to last-- and maddening when all she could focus on were his lips. She did her best to tamp down the heat, but the bow of his mouth never failed to stoke it. An hour in, she'd be squirming in her seat.

Once he trailed off, and when she looked up from her plate, she found him staring at her hair. His eyes were glassy, distantly curious.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He tongued an eyetooth. “I was just thinking how impressive it is that you can keep all that hair rolled tight.”

He flexed a hand as if remembering the feel of it, and the pressure in the room dropped.

 

 

She didn't know how it happened, exactly. She and Michael had been arguing, but only mildly; it didn’t warrant this kind of reaction. The man hadn’t even raised his voice. He’d only been annoying her, and she’d miscalculated her correction.

“I didn’t know you allowed knives.”

“I don’t,” she said, pressing hers harder against his throat. “This one was confiscated.”

She'd taken it six months ago, and kept it in her boot ever since. It was a good knife: leather wrapped, its eight inch blade ending in a wicked hook. It would've been good for gutting deer, but these days it did little more than keep her ankle cool. 

And threaten Cooperative agents, apparently.

Langdon swallowed, testing the blade's bite. His eye twitched almost imperceptibly when it dug into his neck, and he laid his head against the wall to relieve pressure.

“Is this how you usually settle disagreements?”

“Only with men like you.”

He huffed a laugh, but it was humorless. However he'd expected the talk to go, this possibility hadn’t occurred. He looked unsettled, eyes shifting for an out. But there wasn't one. Not when a fractionally wrong twist would open his throat.

“I could kill you,” she muttered.

The words settled between them like cement. They were alone in the lounge, having scared off fellow sitters with their spat. No one would be back for a while.

His tongue darted to wet his lips. She could almost hear him thinking.

“You could.” He swallowed again, hissing when the blade caught. “Do you want to?”

She’d fantasized about it. And if she were going to, it’d have to be now, because this would never work again. The next time she so much as looked at her boots, Langdon would be ready. She couldn’t rely on surprise a second time. If she wanted the reigns of this operation back, she’d have to buy them with his blood tonight. 

But then he’d be cold, never run a hand across her shoulders again. For reasons she refused to examine, the thought soured her tongue.

“No.” 

“What do you want?”

She adjusted her hold on the blade, and Michael went stiff. “I want you to be quiet.”

Keeping the edge against his neck, she slowly dragged. His eyes fell closed, and he tilted to bare more of throat. The tendons strained, begging for teeth, but she bit her tongue instead. When the blade knocked his jaw she turned it, digging the point into the taut flesh beneath. She worked patterns with the tip, leaving irritable red lines in her wake.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, trying to bait him.

He didn’t take it. He stayed silent, hands in fists, throat presented to her like a gift. Rewarding the obedience, she laid the blade flat, cooling the marks beneath his chin. It was only a short rest. Before he could relax, she dragged the cutting edge near his pulse. It hammered beneath his jaw, delicate, kissable; she thought of suckling it until he keened. Want flared in her gut, but she ignored it. Instead, she pressed the spot hard with the hooked edge. 

The man skittered out a moan, and the sound was so lewd she forgot her grip. Turning too quick, she snagged skin with the hook. He gave another moan, this one edged in pain, and a bright glob of blood burst from the wound. Shocked, she stepped back, hardly registering that she’d dropped the knife.

“I didn’t,” she began, then shook herself, restarted: “I wasn’t trying to--”

He cut her off with a breathy laugh. Head back still and chest rising rapidly, he reached up to check the wound. The flow was already slowing, and he wiped his hand clean on his coat.

“Oh Wil,” he sighed, sounding almost fond. “You love wasting an advantage.”

She stepped back again when he pushed off the wall, but he didn’t come any closer. He crouched instead, picking up the knife. She bit her cheek, embarrassed to have been disarmed by a sound. But there was nothing to do about that now.

Langdon stood, turning his prize. It was a uneasy appraisal, especially when he caught sight of his own blood. He held it near a candlestick, twisting it to catch light. The blood glistened on the hook and he seemed captivated.

“This is a good knife,” he said finally. “Inconspicuous, vicious. It suits you.” He flipped it, palming the blade, and held the hilt out. “You should keep a better hold on it.”

She eyed the handle suspiciously. If she reached for it, would his other hand snatch her wrist? He was armed now, and stronger besides. If he turned the tables, she'd be helpless.

Sensing her hesitance, he made a show of laying it on an end table.

“May I be dismissed?”

She wasn't his superior. He could come and go as he pleased. Still, she granted the request. Inclining his head in thanks, he pushed by her.

“Do you remember,” he asked on the way, “that I haven't run out of whiskey?”

She hadn't thought of that conversation in what felt like weeks.

“Yes.”

“Good.” She heard the door open behind her. “The invitation still stands.”

Not waiting for a response, he left the lounge. She didn’t pick the knife up again until the click of his heels receded.

 

 

A week passed without incident. Well, six days, anyway. Then she found a man dead in his room.

His name was Lionel, and he’d been new, barely in the building for three months. Confinement chaffed him from the start; within the first week, he was itching to leave. She thought he would settle, especially after having to be locked in solitary for a botched escape. And he had, though not for the better. He didn’t try to leave again after that, but he became antisocial. He was rarely seen except for meals, and even those were scarce. He spent days in his room, holding out until hunger was unbearable. 

That was why it’d taken so long to notice he was missing, and why when she finally checked his room, it reeked. 

He was bloated when she found him, dark with rot, and hanging by filthy a bedsheet. If it weren’t for her cane, she’d have collapsed. 

She recruited help, had him cut down and shoved in the waste disposal. It didn’t lead outside, but to a cellar deep enough to swallow smell. It’d been a communal laundry room when there’d been electricity. Now it was a catch all for what they couldn’t dump.

Death didn’t upset her. She’d seen it many times before. The way he’d been hanging, though, was unnerving. He’d been swinging a little, as though something was batting his feet. She didn’t believe in ghosts, or witches, or God. The world was chaotic enough without them. But there had been an otherness with her in that room. She’d felt its attention on her.

She could still feel the prickle of it hours later. It followed, and made her sick.

 

 

“Mr Langdon,” she called, after several seconds of deliberation. “Are you in?”

She was at his door again, though she shouldn’t be. If anyone saw, they’d be sure to think-- but that wasn’t her intention. She just wanted a drink.

There was scuffle behind the door of chair legs scraping wood. He was awake, then, and this hadn’t been a total waste. It might still be an embarrassment; it’d be like him to refuse, but at least she wouldn’t be left in the hall.

A tumble of locks, and the door opened on him. He was still in his day clothes: dark pants, and a shirt with long sleeves and a high, wrapping collar. He looked untouchable, almost priestly. Rather, he would have if it weren’t for the red on his lids.

“Ms Venable,” he greeted. “What brings you by? Not another corpse, I hope.”

God, but he was indelicate. It had hardly been a day since the body was found.

“I need a favor, actually.”

He leaned against the frame, looking amused. “You realize it’s late.”

Even if she hadn’t, his hair would’ve given it away. The usually smooth locks were gathered at his nape, and what he’d missed fell in waves around his neck. It made him look softer, almost sweet, but that was a dangerous misread.

“I know,” she said, then before she could stop herself: “I was hoping to join you. For a drink,” she clarified. “Please.”

Silence stretched between them, long and ugly. Ms Venable felt her gut turn to stone. She shouldn’t have asked, shouldn’t even have considered it. How he was looking at her made her certain he’d refuse. Not delicately, either. He’d find a way to make it hurt. It was a trap, and she’d stumbled right into it, and now he would play with his food.

The moment passed and Langdon stepped back, opening the door wide to grant passage.

“You have excellent timing. I was just thinking of taking a break.”

He disappeared into the room, and the stunned woman tripped after, making sure to lock the door behind them. The man was at his desk by then, shutting his laptop down. She was too far away to read the screen, but stared anyway. Blue light was a relic now.

“What were you doing?” she asked when it went black.

“Nothing interesting.”

He gestured to his abandoned chair, urging her to sit. While she settled, he knelt to fish under the bed. After a moment, he resurfaced with a heavy black case. She’d seen it when he’d first arrived, and assumed it was the sum of his possessions. Her thoughts had been limited to clothes at the time, but given that he also had a laptop, anything was likely.

“If you water yours,” he said, pulling two glasses free, “There’s a pitcher beside you.”

Her brow furrowed. No, there wasn’t. There was only a laptop on his desk. When she turned to prove it, however, she saw he was right. A large, glass pitcher was at her shoulder. She was certain it hadn’t been before, but there was no time to question it. He was passing her the glasses, and asking her to at least splash his. Grateful for something to do, she wet them both, and he thanked her before getting to his feet. 

In his hands was a bottle, still nearly full, which he held up for her inspection. The liquid ambered in candlelight, honeyed and tempting. She wanted to wrap her lips around the neck.

“Can I pour for you?”

She nodded, and he filled her glass. It was a more generous portion than she'd have poured, and she made a note to drink it slowly. Once his own was filled, he sat the bottle aside and they each took their glasses.

“Do you put stock in ritual?” he asked.

She didn’t understand the question, or why he asked it now. “What do you mean?”

“There’s one for first time two people drink together. Are you familiar?”

She wasn't. She'd never been superstitious. But this was his room, and she was holding his whiskey. If he wanted to talk about it, she wouldn't fight.

“Traditionally,” he began when she didn't object, “the first sips are fed to each other; each person’s glass to the other’s lips.” He swirled his drink, kicking up the sharp scent. “It's meant to foster trust.”

“How so?”

“It proves neither cup was poisoned, for one.”

That was true, though in the new world that was less likely. Liquor was too precious now to ruin, and what was left to lace it with anyway?

“More abstractly, though,” he continued, “I think it's to do with the act itself. The symbology varies based on what you're being offered, but either way: there's something horribly intimate about being fed.”

She shifted in her seat, disliking how he said _intimate_ ; how he chewed it and spat it back raw. She tapped the rim of her glass, not daring to drink. Her host hadn’t yet, and it would be rude, especially when he was going on about trust exercises.

“Is that something you usually do?”

He shrugged. “I let my guest decide, but I’m grateful if they indulge me.”

She tried imagining what his gratitude looked like. She thought she’d seen it in a dream, one where his tongue speared her cunt. He’d looked up at her, cheeks smeared with slick, and his eyes were as wild as she’d felt. He ate her like fruit, spilling a litany of praise into her mind. Things he’d never debase himself by saying to the most delectable woman, and least of all to her. 

She breathed in, tried inconspicuously to cross her legs. This wasn’t the time.

“I will,” she said, hoping to distract herself. “I’ll do it.”

He looked up from his glass, head cocking.

“Will you?” He stared for a while, giving her time to walk back. When she didn’t, he pushed off the bed. “So then, would you like to go first? You’ve gone longest without.”

That was true on several fronts. Most immediately, though, it was true in this. 

She nestled her own glass between her legs and waited for his instruction. She felt unbalanced, out of her depth, and hoped he wouldn’t use it against her. Something delicate was knitting between them, and if he jabbed her now it would snap. But he didn’t. He moved in slowly, never dropping her gaze, and warned her before touching her chin. He took it in hand, stroking a thumb up to her mouth. When he bumped it she gasped, and he shushed her.

“Trust me.”

She wanted to. Nerves lit in his wake, and she was terrified he’d pull away. Breath skittering against his thumb, she allowed him to open her mouth and guide a glass to it. Careful not to choke her, he tipped it slowly, spilling only a splash across her tongue. It was sharp, almost sweet, and burned like a fat knob of ginger. She swallowed greedily, and above her, Michael’s eyes blew.

“How does it taste?”

She sucked her tongue for lingering flavor. “Like a house fire.”

He hummed, released her chin, then eased himself onto his knees. Once settled, he nodded to the glass between her thighs. 

“My turn.”

He looked like a child begging for a favorite toy, but the sweetness was eclipsed when he leaned in. He kissed the glass, and when he turned from it, his nose brushed her thigh. Even through her skirt it singed a nerve, and she gasped, a hand diving into his hair. She tugged him back sharply enough to knock his balance, and had to guide him back to his center. He winced, but didn’t fight the hold, and she pulled the glass free in reward.

“Would you like a drink?” she asked, and in spite of her grip he tried to nod. “Then ask, nicely.”

It was an echo of his first offer, a fact that apparently wasn’t lost. The man laughed weakly before muttering _please_. 

She brought the glass to his lips, and he drank greedily, never once breaking her gaze.

 

 

He hadn’t changed his mind about taking her to the Sanctuary. He hadn’t left her behind yet, either.

His final evaluations were completed some time ago, and he was nearing the end of the second round. Ms Venable wasn’t sure a second sweep was technically sanctioned, but the Cooperative didn’t seem interested in rushing him. Whatever his status-- she was certain now he was more than an agent-- it was enough to grant him a few more weeks. 

For the most part, that time was peaceful. Her sleep, however, was not.

Her dreams of him, infrequent at first, became a nightly occurrence. She blamed their drinking together, which had also grown more frequent. No, not blamed, exactly. That would imply she disliked them. Filthiness aside, she cherished them. 

In her mind he was generous, splitting her with his tongue, fingers, and cock. He still didn’t let her come, but she hardly cared. Being cradled at the edge had become unimaginably sweet. He was also considerate: he didn’t make her strip, or try to sneak a hand up her gown. He went where she let him, and left the rest alone. It was perfect, and intimate, at times strangely real.

Once, she thought she’d really seen him in her bed.

It was nearly morning, and her dreams had ended. Still, when she cracked her eyes there was someone next to her. It was his shape; even in the dark, she knew it. The spice of his scent was unmistakable, and when she traced the profile, so was its line. 

She explored him a while, enjoying his heat and steady pattern of breaths. She skated down his neck, palmed his chest, and rubbed up his shoulders to knead the muscle. She massaged down his arm until she reached his hand, then stroked each of his knuckles. 

He hummed, the sound rumbling and sweet. “You should be dreaming, Wil.”

“Am I not?”

He turned, and even in blackness she knew his eyes were on her.

“What do you think?”

 

 

There was something wrong with Michael Langdon. She'd always suspected that. Suspicion and confirmation, however, were entirely different beasts.

She was in his bathroom. He hadn't locked it, and when she knocked he hadn't told her to go away. That was surprising for several reasons, not the least of which being how he looked.

“How are you doing that?” she asked after a horrible stretch of silence.

“Easily,” he said, voice less like a man's than a grinding set of gears. “I just have to stop concentrating.”

She didn't want to think about what that meant. She also had no choice but to, because there was nothing else in the room to look at.

He was in the tub, water over his chest, and his body was entirely wrong. It had taken a bad color, or lost the good it had. Either way, his skin looked ill. His face was his own; it was the same profile, at least. But it was drawn, strangely lined, and sallow, and his usually golden hair hung nastily about it. He was longer, too, limbs gangly and thin, and his hands-- _God_ , his hands.

“I know,” he sighed, following her gaze. “They're awful, aren’t they?”

They were. His fingers were monstrously long, jointed like spider's legs, and blackened at the tips. The sound they made when he tapped the ledge made her gut drop.

“Why didn't you tell me to wait?”

“You were going to come in anyway.” He bit his lip, opening a half healed split. “And you're still here.”

“Where should I be?”

He considered a moment, then nodded to the door.

“In the room.” He shifted, and a set of horrid, knocking knees broke the surface. “I won't be offended if you leave.”

She nodded, not trusting her voice, and left him alone in the bath.

She spent the next few minutes pacing, cane cracking like a gun with each step. She could leave. Should leave, even, because this was miles over her head. It would be better for them both if she let it lie, returned to her room and went to sleep. In the morning they could get back to whatever this was, pretend the blip had never occurred.

Except, she wasn't sure they could.

Michael wasn't a trusting man. She knew little about him, and this reveal stank of intimacy. Regardless of what he said, he could've stopped her coming in. But he hadn't. He'd exposed his soft underbelly instead. It was a test; she was sure of it, and she didn't want to fail.

Steeling herself, she took a seat on his bed. Excellent timing, apparently, because soon after the bathroom opened. Michael came through, dressed again and wrapped handsomely in the body she knew. He faltered when he caught sight of her, looking startled; he shook the expression quickly, and made his way to the desk.

“I’m surprised, Ms Venable. You looked anxious to leave.”

He hadn't called her Ms Venable in weeks.

“You caught me off guard.”

He laughed, thin and humorless, and hung his towel over the chair to dry. “Ask. I know you want to.”

She chewed the phrasing over in her head, but no matter how she arranged it, it sounded foolish.

“Is it a curse?”

“And here I thought you were secular.” He tongued the point of one tooth, finally looking back at her. “No.”

“So then,” she said slowly, “what’s this?”

She gestured to his body, and the man shrugged.

“It’s a dress.”

It was a nice dress, nicer even than before. His features were crisper, his pretty places standing out in sharper relief. Perhaps it was only in contrast to what she'd just seen, or maybe his spell had been slipping, and a rest was needed to strengthen it.

“Do you take it off often?”

“Only when I can't help it. What’s underneath isn’t my best look.” He crossed his arms, leaning back against the desk. “Anything else?”

She shook her head. There were a dozen things she was burning to ask, but they all struck her as invasive. There was little she really needed to know, and less was better anyway. The sight had been shocking enough. There was no need to dissect the mechanics.

“Should I give you an excuse to leave?” 

She shook her head again, and Michael’s eyes narrowed. He looked suspicious, wary even.

“You must be feeling brave.” He pushed off the desk, took the space between them in slow steps. His feet were bare, but she could imagine how his heels would’ve clicked. The sharp crack would’ve kicked her pulse into gear. She was grateful he hadn’t put them on. “You still don’t know what I am.”

“I don’t need to.”

“No?” He stopped shy of bumping her knees, and leaned down to rest his hands on the bed. They flanked her thighs, boxing her in, and she had to tilt back to see him. The shift brought their faces close, and when he spoke again his breath warmed her chin. “Are you very sure?”

She swallowed, trying not to think about his mouth, or how ruined it’d been minutes ago.

“You’re not going to intimidate me.”

His jaw tensed, a few muscles there twitching. She wanted to kiss them, but didn't dare. He looked like he might bite. 

“What do you want, Wil?”

So it was _Wil_ again. That was something. “I want to stay.” She paused, then because the words were near pleading anyway, added: “Please.”

He stared a while longer, trying to smoke the truth out, and she did her best not to waver. After a moment his eyes softened, and straightened to give her space.

“You’re getting better at that,” he said.

Her brow furrowed. “At what?”

“Pressing your advantage.”

He tugged the creases from his shirt, and turned away.

 

 

She knew she was awake because she was in Langdon’s bed. Dreams had never taken her there. She also knew it because she was getting close, and he wasn’t trying to drag her back.

“ _Michael_ ,” she whined, then spat a cuss, tried shutting her legs against a shock of pleasure.

He held her in place, moaned open mouthed against her cunt. She felt the sound more than heard it. It buzzed her clit, and she bit back a miserable sound. She was going to die from this, or be eaten alive. Either way, it would be his fault.

His tongue worked mercilessly, nestling deep to tease out drools of slick. His face was messy with it, and so were her thighs, which would be mortifying if his eyes weren’t blow. He seemed to love the taste, and milked her for it, tongue sharpening to circle her entrance. The tender ring quivered before fluttering open, and he pushed the muscle through. It burrowed, a wet pulse of heat, then slipped back out to tease. She clenched, trying to draw him back in. 

“Please,” she bleated. “Let me finish.”

Her desperation rang clear, and color flared in her cheeks. _Humiliating_ , she thought, but Michael didn’t seem to agree. He slipped inside again, fucking shallowly, his nose bumping against her clit. She tried to move with him, but his grip was sure. She was pinned like a bug beneath him. 

Her gut coiled tight, nearing its break. Nearing, but not quite cresting. And she wouldn’t; not like this. It was sweet, but not enough. 

“Michael,” she tried again. “Don’t make me-- _ah_.”

His tongue slipped free, and he pulled back to shush her. “I won’t.”

He thumbed her hip, sparking nerves, then lapped up the seam of her cunt. He flattened his tongue over the nub crowning it, and her mouth opened on a groan. He gave her clit a few swipes, then drew it into his mouth. He suckled it, like a nipple, like a cock, lapping at the swollen head. 

A deep fog settled, tunneling her vision. She couldn’t focus on anything but his mouth. Which is why, she supposed, she didn’t notice his hand had moved until a finger was pressing into her. She cussed, felt herself clench around a pumping digit, and, after he was satisfied with the stretch, a second.

It only took a few minutes. Michael’s fingers were wicked, curling and thorough, and his tongue gave her no respite. She was soaked, cunt oozing around him. If he would just let her, she’d spill into his open mouth.

“Can I?” she asked, half fearing the answer, because in dreams, this was where he broke pace.

Humming, he redoubled his efforts. His tongue circled, fingers pumping viciously, and she felt herself go stiff. He suckled once, twice, three more times, then she felt herself tip over the edge. Her breath snagged, releasing in a low, trembling moan, and she shuddered around his fingers. He pumped her through it, milking the aftershocks, kissing her engorged clit. When her breathing settled, he carefully pulled free and knelt to hover over her.

“Feel better?”

She panted a laugh, and wiped sweat from her face.

“I will,” she said, “when I've returned the favor.”

 

 

“I have a gift for you,” Michael said.

She looked up from her desk and the book sitting open on it. She hadn't really been reading anyway. She'd made good progress the first hour, but now kept getting stuck on the page. The distraction was welcome, especially from him, because any day now he'd be leaving. He'd had a chat with whoever he reported to, and was expecting a pickup within the week. The convoy for his selections would arrive a few days after.

As for what would happen to her-- well. She was trying not to think about it.

Michael still hadn't reconsidered. For all she knew, he couldn't. And that was fine. Really. She'd made her peace. The last few weeks had been a flashpoint, burning brighter than any time previous. She wouldn't spoil it by railing against the unchangeable. Criteria was criteria. She couldn't go where she wasn't needed.

“A gift,” she repeated, testing the word. How long had it been since she'd used it? “What for?”

He didn't answer, which set her teeth on edge. Was it a parting favor? Had his entourage already arrived? Before she could ask, he advanced, coming quickly to the edge of her desk. After rounding it, he hopped onto its face. He nodded to her book, and once she moved it, scooted to sit with legs crossed in front of her. It was an obnoxious position; something a toddler would do.

“You passed a perfectly good chair to get there.”

He ignored the words, and dug a hand into his pocket. He fished around a while, and when he withdrew, he was making a fist.

“Hold out your hand.”

The words triggered memory: a young boy on the playground, smirking and demanding the same. She’d coveted his attention, and thrilled to have it did as he asked without question. She’d even closed her eyes for dramatic effect, which in hindsight had been a mistake. The worms he smashed against her would've been less terrifying if she’d seen them coming. 

Michael reminded her a little of all the men she'd wanted. Knowing the little she did of his glamour, she wondered if that was intentional. Just now, though, he most heavily recalled that first one: a grinning little tyrant, more likely than not to trick. 

“Can I keep my eyes open?”

It was a pointless question. Her hand was already out, palm obediently turned up. He brought his own over it, and dropped what he was holding. It fell heavy and cool in the center of her hand, and she snatched back to examine it.

It was a pendant, she supposed; it was drilled through at the top, though no chain was strung through it yet. Flat metal, thin, rectangular, undecorated except for the script running its length. At least, she thought it was script. She didn’t recognize the alphabet. Squinting, she brought it close to her face, hoping to catch a clue she’d missed.

“Does it say something?” she asked after a while.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t translate well.” He leaned up, lacing his fingers in his lap. “Would saying it’s my mark suffice?”

She pursed her lips, lowering her hand to the desk. She didn’t put the pendant down, though. It’d warmed nicely, felt like a candle in hand.

“Like a signature?”

“Something like that.” 

She hummed, dragging a nail over the letters. When she did, it almost seemed to respond. The metal’s heat spiked, pulsing like a heartbeat. Or perhaps she only imagined it.

“Do you like it?”

He was staring down at her with a careful expression, but she didn’t miss how his eyes flicked to her hands. He tongued his teeth when she stroked the script again, and when its heat flared, her mouth went dry. She wanted to ask what exactly she was holding, but expected he’d doge the question. He answered few of those when he could still avoid it.

“It’s pretty,” she said. “But what’s it for?”

“It’s a recognizable mark,” he said. “As good as currency in what still passes for civilization. If you found yourself somewhere unfamiliar, or needed to bypass clearance, there aren’t many places it wouldn’t get you.”

She laughed. It was a sweet enough sentiment, though she doubted it’d be much use.

“I know every inch of this building, and I’m still the top rung on the ladder.”

“I’m not talking about here.”

It took several seconds for the implication to land. When it did, her fist closed around the metal. The sharp corners dug in, making stinging points of clarity. He wasn’t serious. He couldn’t be. 

“Is that a joke?” she asked, and he shook his head. “Then I’m confused.” Her hand relaxed, curling loosely around the gift. “I’m confused about why this is only coming up now.”

Her tone was terse, but he didn’t seemed effected. “Does it matter? It’s not like you have much packing to do.”

She bit her cheek. That wasn’t the point. “Can I ask what changed your mind?”

She had an idea, of course, and it soothed some of her annoyance. Him saying it might even wipe all of it away. But Langdon was-- well, himself.

“You’ve proven yourself to be useful.”

Of course she had. “Charming, Mr Langdon.”

“Is that what you like?” he asked, smirking a little. He already knew the answer. His mark was cradled like a gem in her hand. “For your men to be very charming?”

 _Her men_ , she thought. What a ridiculous, intoxicating thing to insinuate.

“I’d have cut your throat when I had the chance, if it was.” His grin widened, and color threatened to bloom up her neck. “How do I wear it?”

He held up his fist, and when he loosened it, the long end of a chain slid free. He hadn’t been holding that before, but there was no sense in thinking about it too deeply. She snatched the end and he let it go, watching her thread it through the pendant. 

“Do you want to put it on me?”

“I can’t.” Her brow furrowed, but he waved it off dismissively. “It’s a technicality. I won’t bore you.”

It didn’t sound boring, but she wouldn’t argue. Now that it was strung, she was eager to have it on. Reaching back, she fussed with the clasp until it latched, then let the pendant fall against her chest. It rested just beneath the hollow of her throat, or where it would be if her collar weren’t high. She’d have to put it on before dressing to wear it discreetly.

“Well?” She touched the base of it, shifting it against her dress. The metal was still warm, pulsing against the tips. “How does it look?”

“Perfect,” he assured, so sincerely that her throat cinched. “Will you keep it?”

She swallowed around the ache and nodded, then, to be very sure: “Yes.”

Heat flared under her fingers so sharply it almost burned. It ebbed before she could pull back, and the pendant settled into a pleasant warmth. It leaked through her dress, warming the fabric through. 

He smiled at her, widely, almost too full of teeth. She thought of a jackal again, and of that vicious mouth against her skin.

One of them said _thank you_. She wasn’t sure which.

**Author's Note:**

> These two have such horny energy, I couldn’t help myself. I could probably write another 15 fics of just them.


End file.
